Little Women: Can't See the Wood for the Trees
by UndomesticatedSoA
Summary: Sometimes you can't see the wood for the trees, especially when you're on your own and far away from home.


**A/N**

**UndomesticatedSoA - Definition: A collaboration between Voracious Bitch and MuckyShroom, exploring the women of SAMCRO. Some characters are canon, some OFCs. Some situations are AU, some canon. If you want more info, just check out the bio.**

**Disclaimer: All characters, etc from Sons of Anarchy are the property of Kurt Sutter, FX, etc. We own nothing that you recognise from SoA.**

**Our OC's are our own.**

**Parental Advisory Warning: This piece contains allusions to sexual violence.  
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**-o0o-  
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**Can't See the Wood for the Trees**

She looked in the mirror, searching for evidence and finding none. He hadn't just hit her. She'd imagined it. They'd been arguing, she couldn't remember about what and he hadn't lifted his hand and slapped her face in the middle of it. It had been a long day for both of them. They were both stressed by work. They'd had a couple of glasses of wine after dinner. She'd imagined it, must have. Her cheek wasn't red, a little pink maybe, but she'd been yelling, of course she was flushed. There was no black eye. She felt a little crazy. No, he wouldn't hit her, he loved her. He was always doing stuff for her; little things, sending her flowers at work, leaving notes for her in the house, phoning her to see how she was. No, he loved her, she must have imagined it. God knows where her brain had pulled this delusion from. She quickly brushed her teeth and turned for the bedroom. Tomorrow would be another day.

-o0o-

She was on her hands and knees, clearing up the shattered piece of porcelain and the remnants of the food that had been on it, being careful to watch out for the small sharp shards of crockery. She didn't want to cut her hand. He was right, she'd been unreasonable. At least he'd gone out instead of... no, he wouldn't have done that. Why would she even think such a thing about him? This was all her fault. Of course Tuesday was steak night, why had she even thought he'd appreciate chicken casserole on a Tuesday. It was ridiculous. She couldn't even remember what had possessed her to think such a thing. No wonder he'd hurled the plate at the wall when he'd seen what was on it. She pushed to her feet, putting the pieces in the bin and grabbing a cloth to wipe up the congealing gravy and lumps of chicken and vegetables. She'd get it right tomorrow and everything would be OK. Everything would be right between them again. It would be all be alright tomorrow.

-o0o-

She winced as she sat down, still feeling a little tender. Her mind was playing tricks on her again he hadn't ... No! She refused to even think the word. That wasn't what he'd done, wasn't what had happened to her. That wasn't what he was. He'd just been over excited and she hadn't quite been in the mood. They were in love, but sometimes she was tired after work and he wasn't, it was that simple. She wasn't a victim. He'd held her so tightly afterwards, whispered in her ear how much he loved her, how much he needed her. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. It wouldn't be like that again. She loved him. She'd be ready for him. She just needed to rest more now and then, not let the shifts and the patients get on top of her so much. She needed to change her diet, get more protein, hit the gym and build up more stamina. She just needed more energy to keep up with him that was all. He hadn't...no he hadn't. She still refused to even think the word to herself.

-o0o-

She was staring at herself in the mirror again. There was no ignoring this. The bruising around her eye, over her cheek, taunted her.

_Thought you were crazy did you? Didn't get away when you had the chance did you? You should run now._ Her inner-voice whispered.

No she wouldn't run. He'd been so apologetic. He hadn't meant it. It was her fault. She'd wound him up. They'd been arguing again. She hadn't even seen him raise his fist, it was that unexpected. She'd barely even felt any pain, at least not at first. It wasn't until her head had snapped to one side and her vision had gone black on that eye as his fist connected with her cheek that she'd realised what he'd done; but she hadn't been able to do anything more than hold her cheek and stare at him in shock. That was when he'd started apologising, falling to his knees, wrapping his arms around her hips, begging for forgiveness. She'd told him it didn't matter, that it was OK, that she knew he didn't mean it; too shocked to say anything else in the face of his love-lorn grief. But now she was looking in the mirror, wondering how the hell she was going to cover this up with make-up before she went into work. She grabbed the phone and rang in sick.

-o0o-

She lay on the bed, exhausted and hurting. She didn't need to look in the mirror this time to know she looked a mess. She could taste the blood in her mouth from her cut lip. She knew she had another black eye. Her nose was tender but she was fairly sure it wasn't broken. Her neck was sore. Her throat burned from crying, calling out, from being gripped by his large hand as he'd held her down. Other parts hurt too, there was more burning, more deep aching. She didn't have the strength to move and she didn't want to risk waking him up. His heavy breathing next to her signalled his deep, untroubled sleep. The weight of his arm across her stomach brought a rising panic at the feeling of being trapped. She tried to breathe deeply, if she didn't move it'd be alright. If she just stayed very still... She closed her eyes and squeezed them tight, ignoring the throbbing pain from the bruised and tender skin. She'd wake up soon. It would be morning. He'd be bringing her breakfast in bed. They'd be laughing about the fact he always brought her apple juice when he knew she preferred orange. The sun would be shining through the drapes and this would all be a horrible nightmare. She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling in the gloomy light of the dark room. She'd wake up from this nightmare soon.

-o0o-

She walked out of the police station convinced she was crazy. They'd started off sympathetic, helpful, concerned. Then as soon as she'd mentioned his name and where he worked, who he worked for, their attitude had changed They'd asked if she was sure she hadn't done anything to provoke him and she found that she couldn't honestly say that she hadn't. Her inner voice had been screaming that what was happening to her wasn't right, that she needed to make them understand, that she wasn't crazy; but they just kept twisting what she said until she just couldn't think straight anymore. The fresh air cleared her head a little. She had a moment of disappointment, then she resolved to try harder. Maybe it was all down to her. He loved her dearly, he told her all the time how much she meant to him. She would just have to try harder.

-o0o-

After her second visit to the police, this time in a different precinct, she realised that she wasn't crazy; they were protecting one of their own. She'd been unwilling to go back to the unhelpful officers she'd seen before, had been scared that they' put her off again, would twist her words again. The officers here had done exactly the same thing anyway. She was fucked and she didn't know how to get out of this. The administrators at the hospital were beginning to question her sickness record. The panic started to rise in her throat along with the bile as she realised just how trapped she was. Her heart tried to frantically beat it's way out of her chest when she realised that they would call him again and tell him what she had accused him of and what she was trying to do. She began to run down the street, not caring that people stared at her, not knowing where she was going, just knowing that she had to run, even if the only place she had to go was home, the home where he was. The thought brought her up short and the sobs burst past her panting breath.

-o0o-

At the third police station, the third precinct she'd tried, they finally listened. It had helped that this time she'd photographed the bruises. She'd taken a number of photos to show them. He didn't hit her in the face so much anymore. The other two police precincts that she'd tried to elicit help from had called him, and he'd gotten wind of her problems with her superiors at the hospital. So he'd stopped hitting her where people would see the evidence. Even so, the aftermath of each of her visits to the police had been epically painful.

The relief that people believed her and wanted to help her; that she could use the law against him, was mitigated by the effects of his behaviour on her professional life. She had a meeting next week with the Chief of Staff at the hospital, she was distracted, took too many sick days, was off her game, had made mistakes with patients. Fortunately she hadn't made any serious errors yet, but it was only a matter of time and they were calling her professionalism and conduct into question. She was fairly sure she was going to be suspended. That thought brought the ever simmering fear to a rapid boil. She was safe whilst she was at work, he couldn't touch her there. She needed to be able to be there.

-o0o-

She lay in a crumpled heap on the floor of the living room, knowing she was bleeding into the carpet and that she was going to catch hell for making a mess. She tried to push herself up, to get to the kitchen to get some cold water and a rag, to get the bleach, but there was no strength in her arms, no strength anywhere in her body. It just hurt too much. She just wanted to close her eyes and wake up somewhere else. She wanted someone to hold her and tell her it would all be OK, that he'd never hurt her again, that she was safe. She never felt safe any more; she hadn't for a long time.

He always seemed to know where to find her, and he didn't seem to give two shits about the restraining order. He'd bundled her into his car and brought her back here this morning in broad daylight. He'd dragged her back into the house they'd once shared and... She still refused to say it to herself. That wasn't what it was. It was a misunderstanding. _'Some misunderstanding!'_ her inner voice sneered.

She finally pushed herself up into a sitting position, being careful of all the tender places on her body. She looked at the blood on the carpet, the red against the cream a stark statement of what was happening, of what this was. He'd kissed her before he'd gone to shower. He'd leant down and kissed her again after he'd dressed, told her to not to forget to eat something before she went to work. Then he'd left, leaving her bleeding on the rug.

She wasn't going to go to work today. There was one place she had to go. She didn't think she'd necessarily get any help there, but it was somewhere that she knew and he didn't. She'd had the letter about her dad's house this week, knew the keys were waiting to be picked up. She could hide there, get herself together and decide what to do next. The reasons why she'd left that town in the first place seemed petty now. She might even stay there, transfer to Saint Thomas, if they'd have her given her record now here at work. She'd have to maybe explain a little, not everything, just a little.

Decision made, Tara clambered up and stumbled to the bathroom. She saw the damage in the mirror. Looking at her reflection, the blood and the bruising, she remembered back to that first night. The first night that Josh had raised a hand to her, when he'd slapped her and that there hadn't even been a red mark. She couldn't explain how they'd gone from there to here, couldn't for the life of her have told anyone how she'd ended up like this.


End file.
